Today's prompt.
The flowers revealed their truth to me,
a humble listener, drinking in the tenets to
a life lived in the elements. "Don't drink
old rainwater after business hours."
My father told me to question
anything that sounded like a sales pitch.
"Gold glitters and the soul latches on
with its tendrils of avarice."
The flowers were apoplectic. "Who did
I take them for? Garden weeds?"
Why mention business hours? It seemed
like a racket to me and I said so.
My father, away on business, said "Keep holy the
separation of business and health."
I wondered aloud, "what does health mean?"
The flowers responded, "Health is the thing with
muscular legs that carries us from one commercial to the next.
We are living in a glorious time to move capital."
I took my weed eater and turned the errant garden to a finely
ripped up, dry dirt. We were praying for rain again.
I contemplated drinking the standing water, flush with the buzz
of mosquito and the dull smell of eggs.
My father once said, "to know thirst is our greatest advantage."
I wondered, as the flowers howled their apologies, their remediations
for living life in service of currency, their action-plans and committees
to become better, if I were doing the right thing. In the silence
of the hot afternoon that followed, I looked to the sky and heard the distant grumble of thunder.
Love it!
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